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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901766">Reynauld &amp; Kumar Go to White Castle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hautyre/pseuds/Hautyre'>Hautyre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Crack, Angst and Humor, Drunk Texting, F/F, F/M, M/M, Microsoft Excel, Religious Guilt, Sex Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:07:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hautyre/pseuds/Hautyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dismas gets what he presumes is the number of a hot blonde his senior year at Estate University - turns out it's just the religious fundie from study group, or something.</p><p>(Title is just a bad pun, sorry.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon), Grave Robber/Plague Doctor (Darkest Dungeon), Jester/Leper (Darkest Dungeon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reynauld &amp; Kumar Go to White Castle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dismas runs a hand through his hair in what he hopes will give him a fashionably disheveled look (as opposed to just regular disheveled) before he snaps a picture – he squints at the screen, briefly considers retaking it before shrugging. It’s not great, but it’s not going to get any better either. The eyes are in focus and his jawline is fire, that’s what matters.</p><p>He attaches it to a text for the number that’s smeared on his hand and types up something quick below it, grinning when he passes it over to Tardif on his right in the booth.</p><p>“Take a look and see if it comes off right, yeah?”</p><p>Tardif doesn’t even look before he presses ‘send,’ tipping the rest of his beer into his mouth.</p><p>“Oy!” Dismas snatches it back. “You’re the worst.”</p><p>“I’m the worst,” Tardif agrees. It’s probably the most words he’s said in a row this year. His own message flashes on the screen, magnificent in its drunken glory.</p><p><b>N ighhts not over yet luvv lmk if you’re interested ;-)</b> [12:26 AM]</p><p>It’s really not as clever as he thought it was when he typed it. Sarmenti has the guts to laugh straight in his face with bourbon in hand, pinky finger extended unironically like the pretentious git he is.</p><p>The din in the Yellow Hand on the corner of 6th and Estate is fucking loud Friday night after midterms – Sarmenti can yell over it, so he does, stupid skinny ass belting, “Are you being a whore again?”</p><p>“Yeah? I deserve it.”</p><p>“He can have a little whoring, as a treat,” Tardif affirms, snapping for a Jack Daniels and a glass of ice at the overworked bartender.</p><p>His phone pings, coming up on his lock screen: <i>Who are you?</i> [12:29 AM] then another, <i>How did you get this number?</i> [12:29 AM], putting a damper on his evening.</p><p>“Damn, damn, turkey and ham.” Dismas puts the phone down. “Bogus number.”</p><p>“Who was it from – or, who was it <i>supposed</i> to be from,” Sarmenti laughs, peeks up from his glass like it’s demure – it’s at his expense, but so be it.</p><p>“Hot blonde, sorority girl in third year – thought she seemed a little too eager to give me her number.”  He kneads his temples, elbows on the sticky bar top. “It’s over for me, lads. I’m dying alone.”</p><p>“Not yet, ask wrong number if they’ll give you head,” Sarmenti says while Dismas texts.</p><p><b>ah shit!! ‘m sorr y for  both ring you . bogus number bruv. carry on</b> [12:31 AM]</p><p>The next text comes for him out of left field.</p><p><i>Is this supposed to be English?</i> [12:32 AM]</p><p>“Christsake. ‘e’s gettin’ strappy with me,” Dismas mourns, because there’s something really sad about a fake number criticizing your texts at twelve in the morning. Evening? Twelve in the evening? Technically – head hurty.</p><p><b>Onl y the Queen’s egnlish!!!! We invented.  the damn languge  bruv</b> [12:32 AM] There, that’ll set the stranger to rights. </p><p>Sarmenti’s grinding a toothpick between his teeth, a habit Dismas has come to hope will one day choke him. “How do you know it’s a ‘he,’ eh?”</p><p>Dismas squints. He’s got a point. He should make an effort to be more inclusive.</p><p><b>*or bruvess</b> [12:31 AM]</p><p>His phone pings back immediately. <i>What?</i> [12:32 AM]</p><p><b>u know. if ur a lady. bruvess. like  goddess or duch ess</b> [12:32 AM] This makes perfect sense to him. Is it the unbelievably convoluted Anglo-Saxon French as employed by the British that is so out of touch?</p><p>“No, it’s the Americans who are wrong,” Dismas slurs out loud, no comment from the peanut gallery.</p><p><i>I am male.</i> [12:33 AM]</p><p>What kind of tosser says that – ‘male’? Like he’s sexing chickens, or something.</p><p>“It’s a boy,” He announces. A gender reveal for a wrong number. Still, all was not lost.</p><p><b>yeahh,, so am i, laddy  ;-)</b> [12:33 AM] The perks of being bisexual. Not 'college bisexual' either, full mixed berry flag for him.</p><p><i>I know. You just sent me a photo of you.</i> [12:34 AM] Oh, that’s right. Dismas blinks a little too hard and almost knocks himself out.</p><p>“Stop flirting with the fucking stranger,” Sarmenti complains without even looking at the texts. “If he’s still talking to you he’s probably some 50-year old creep in Minnesota.” </p><p>Dismas frowns. He’s probably right. Best to make sure.</p><p><b>are  you minestrone</b> [12:35 AM]</p><p>“You miss, one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Wayne Gretsky, Michael Scott.” He tips the froth at the bottom of the glass into his mouth.</p><p><i>The soup?</i> [12:35 AM]</p><p><b>no</b> [12:35 AM] He hits ‘Send’ by accident, so for about a good minute that’s all the stranger gets for context.</p><p><b>sars said. Ur probably an old man, in minnsota. otherwise s this true . why are you still texting me :-(</b> [12:37 AM] The frowny face is to look pouty, because Dismas thinks that translates well in text.</p><p><i>You are clearly impaired. Do you need me to arrange safe transport back to the dorms for you?</i> [12:38 AM]</p><p>Dismas actually smiles, because it’s kind of cute that the stranger cares, and he’s not afraid to be grateful that he’s not as bitter as Sarmenti or as emotionally unavailable as Tardif – he’s ignoring their stares and snide comments, concentrating on making contact with the keys that made words.</p><p><b>no i’m fi ne msyery man. but thank u for caring i can get home okay . see u on the morrow :-)</b> [12:41 AM] He sends a smiley face in that one to look smiley, and Dismas hopes that translates well in text.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_</p>
</div>Absolutely wicked. It’s absolutely wicked that the sun exists, that light and sound exist. God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it sucked dick to get in your eyes, and he made darkness to give everyone a break. That’s Genesis.<p>Dismas’ roommate is making cereal, and even that is so loud that he can barely stomach it.</p><p>“Abdul Alhazred,” Dismas says from underneath the covers, “you will not eat today. Allah forbids it.”</p><p>Al peeks around the corner. “Cool. I’m not Muslim.” The cabinet bangs shut.</p><p>He groans, grabs his phone off his nightstand and nearly snaps the charger in the process.</p><p><i>Did you make it home safely?</i> [7:15 AM] It’s from an unknown number.</p><p><i>I realize you may either be sleeping or kidnapped. Please respond within the day, otherwise I will contact campus police.</i> [8:22 AM]</p><p>His eyes are dry as fuck, and he doesn’t know who the hell this is.</p><p><b>yeah I’m fine, bruv. who is this?</b> [11:01 AM]</p><p>Fuck’s sake, it’s 11 already. He hoverhands the nightstand, knocking over all sorts of shit in his quest to find the eyedrops.</p><p>When he can see again, there’s a text waiting for him.</p><p><i>You were excessively drunk last night, sent your picture to a wrong number, tried to flirt with the wrong number, and then slept in until 11.</i> [11:06 AM]</p><p>Dismas is still staring at the text when a glass of juice is pushed into his hand.</p><p>“Rehydrate, stupid.” Alhazred makes his way back to his own room to play League for god knows how long.</p><p><b>ah, fucks sake. did I really</b> [11:10 AM] Dismas writes, because he’s not sure what he should say. Sorry? Was that the right thing to say? He scrolls up quickly through the texts, but it’s all just gibberish and a grainy photo on his end.</p><p><b>how do you know I just woke up and not that I waited until lunch to reply</b> [11:11 AM]</p><p>The response is immediate. <i>I can predict that the first thing you would do when waking up to a hangover is to huddle in bed with your phone.</i> [11:11 AM]</p><p>It isn’t the hot read of a lifetime, but it’s kind of annoying all the same. <b>oh, I’m terrible sorry for drinking on a friday night. please forgive me, sir</b> [11:11 AM]</p><p><i>All is forgiven.</i> [11:12 AM] Fuck’s sake. <i>Why so desperate to drink?</i> [11:12 AM]</p><p>Never mind that it’s true, it’s presumptuous, and Dismas hates that. <b>desperate nothing. brits are all low level drunkards. if we’re not drinking, we’re pissing it out.</b> [11:13 AM]</p><p><i>No vice exists for the sake of itself.</i> [11:13 AM] Dismas would roll his eyes if eyedrops weren’t so expensive.</p><p><b>right, okay. what do you care</b> [11:14 AM]</p><p>The bubble with the three dots appears and disappears, the visual equivalent of being lost for words, and Dismas is getting ready to toss the phone aside and forget it ever happened before the next text comes up.</p><p><i>I think maybe you’re lonely.</i> [11:16 AM]</p><p><b>you ought to write for astrology twitter, mate. now piss off</b> [11:17 AM]</p><p>Man, fuck this dude. Dismas crawls out to take a shower.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_</p>
</div>“If you’ve waited this long to start the assignment – I don’t know what to tell you. This was assigned three weeks ago, I’ve had office hours every other day since then – if you haven’t come in by now, then you don’t care about this class, and you don’t care about this degree,” Prof. Crier is saying, his unending passive-aggressivity punctuated with an exaggerated shrug;  the class GroupMe is lighting up.<p><i>bro this dudes neck looks like a caterpillar</i> [2:57 PM]</p><p><i>His chins be moving independently loll </i> [2:57 PM]</p><p><i>This is fucking bullshit. Two-thirds of this assignment can be found on Chegg.</i> [2:57 PM] – this one’s followed by a chorus of cry-laugh emojis, the unofficial symbol for the Crier.</p><p>Dismas gets a ping from the other messages app on his phone.</p><p><i>I was puzzled at first, but now I know what this means. I’ve researched it.</i> [3:10 PM] It’s the wrong number again. He hasn’t heard from him all weekend – he’d assumed that he’d lost interest after the novelty had worn off.</p><p><b>what are you on about this time</b> [3:11 PM]</p><p><i>The social media app Twitter is host to many unqualified users who post trite, vague premonitions and pass them off as divination of the stars using very generalized and therefore high probability guesses.</i> [3:14 PM] He’s never seen a sentence with that many words in it. That should be a crime.</p><p><i>By telling me that I should “write for astrology Twitter,” you are criticizing me for also writing banal blanket statements.</i> [3:14 PM]</p><p>There’s some hesitation before a last, almost deferential text: <i>Is this correct?</i> [3:15 PM]</p><p>Everyone’s shuffling around trying to pack quietly during Crier’s regular end-of-class abuse – someone’s Hydroflask hits the floor, cueing another round of insults.</p><p>There’s something oddly charming about it, like he’s genuinely quite proud of himself for having figured this one out – maybe the man really is fifty. </p><p>Dismas concedes. <b>look at you, full marks. you’re on the ball today</b> [3:16 PM]</p><p>The response is slow in coming. <i>Is this sarcasm?</i> [3:19 PM] Dismas actually smiles at that – he’s out in the hall now, walking mindlessly with the rest of the stream of students either leaving for the parking lot or waiting around for their next class.</p><p><b>it’s not sarcasm. here, how about this?</b> [3:20 PM]</p><p><b>:-)</b> [3:21 PM]</p><p><i>Thank you.</i> [3:22 PM]</p><p><b>is THAT sarcasm??</b> [3:22 PM]</p><p><i>No!</i> [3:22 PM] Dismas laughs at that.</p><p><b>I’ve got to go. got an assignment that’s been waiting three weeks for me to get round to, old man</b> [3:23 PM] – he pockets his phone to head out to his bike.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_</p>
</div>“This is a dick move.” Alhazred points to him with the same hand that’s holding the cup of lukewarm three-day old juice. “Dismas Turner, you are a penis of a man.”<p>“I don’t like orange juice,” Dismas complains. “You know that. That shit tastes like acid.”</p><p>“The joke is on me for having sympathy for you,” Alhazred’s voice trailing as he heads back to the kitchen to dump it out, “all woe-is-me and barely standing, showing up drunk at two in the morning. Thank whatever god is looking out for you.”</p><p>“He should have bug-tested in sandbox before release,” Dismas mutters, hovering a cursor over the formula bar. </p><p>Damn, he hates Excel. Just one cell reference is wrong out of a sequence of hundreds of cells making up S&amp;P 500 data from last year and the cells for variance and standard deviation come out with “#VALUE!” No functions, either – the equations have to be typed out by hand for full credit.</p><p>Fuck, and he has to go back and do it all <i>again</i> for geometric average. He lets the frustration wash over him, sits back and opens his phone.</p><p>Sure as shit, wrong number is there.</p><p><i>I am not old.</i> [3:23 PM] He can almost hear how sulky he is.</p><p><b>you sure seem like it, bruv.</b> [9:04 PM] He sends that one, follows it up with: <b>you know what, you know a hell of a lot more about me than I know about you. I don’t know anything about you, so’s least you can do is give me your name, yeah?</b> [9:05 PM]</p><p>Three dots show up, then disappear.</p><p><i>My name is Reynauld.</i> [9:06 PM]</p><p>Reynauld. Shit, it <i>sounds</i> like an old person name – then again, he could just be white. </p><p><b>and how many grandkids do you have lol </b> [9:11 PM]</p><p><i>None. I’m 26.</i> [9:11 PM]</p><p>Yeah, he knew it. Something about the way he typed didn’t quite line up – baby boomers and their random capitalization, excessive spaces between punctuation, and long ellipses when they text come to mind. This guy was curt but clearly not using text-to-speech to tell his son that lutein pills were on sale at Costco.</p><p><i>And yours?</i> [9:11 PM]</p><p><b>I’m Dismas</b> [9:13 PM] he writes back, and it’s a little uncomfortable after that, because the three dots pop up and disappear for like five minutes while the other guy is presumably hammering away on his smartphone keyboard.</p><p><i>I have always liked that name. There are only so many Jacobs, Johns, Michaels, and Davids to be had before those names feel cheapened, especially when wasted on men who don’t deserve them. But the Good Thief, that is a name worth venerating. I take it your birthday is coming up within a week, on March 25th?</i> [9:17 PM]</p><p>Now that’s uncanny. <b>whew mate, settle down. most of the kids called me dis-gust growing up</b> [9:18 PM] In high school it was ‘deez nuts,’ but he isn’t quite over that one yet.</p><p><b>yeah, my birthday’s on the 25th. now how’d you know that</b> [9:18 PM] For a moment he’s worried he’s looked him up on Facebook, given that it’s an uncommon name and he knows what he looks like. </p><p><i>The Church celebrates the Solemnity of the Annunciation on 3/25, but it is also the feast day of St. Dismas. As it is told in the Gospel of Luke, Christ was crucified between two unnamed thieves; in the Gospel of Nicodemus, the impenitent was named Gestas and the penitent was named Dismas.</i> [9:19 PM]</p><p>There’s a pause, then <i>I’m sorry that happened to you. Children can be cruel.</i> [9:19 PM]</p><p><b>haha, it’s no skin off my nose. I can only imagine what sorts of names kids made from ‘reynauld’ in grade school.</b> [9:20 PM]</p><p>Dismas feels like every text he sends takes the wind out of Wrong Number – he doesn’t text much, but when he does, he imagines on the other end that having to deal with him burns a <i>lot</i> of spoons.</p><p>This reply is more meted than usual.</p><p><i>Like what?</i> [9:24 PM]</p><p>Well, fuck, he asked for it. <b>off the top of my head… reymold. good daynauld. gaynauld, that’s a big one. uglaynauld. too many things rhyme with or are slant rhymes of ‘rey,’ you’ve been dealt a terrible hand. weigh-nauld and buffet-nauld if you were a fat kid</b> [9:25 PM]</p><p>It’s the longest text he’s sent him yet, and it’s met with complete silence.</p><p>He can’t help himself, though.</p><p><b>toupee-nauld</b> [9:31 PM]</p><p><i>Well.</i> [9:32 PM] That’s the whole text. Dismas can only imagine him, formal sensibilities and gentle candor trying to process a response to fucking ‘Toupee-nauld.’</p><p><i>I can only thank the Light that I was never in class with you.</i> [9:32 PM]</p><p><i>Doubly so because I was quite big as a child and could still afford to lose a few stone to this day. I’m grateful I have not had to deal with the displeasure of being called ‘Buffet-nauld.’</i> [9:32 PM]</p><p>Two things learned: he’s a husky lad, and he’s a practitioner of the Flame. Dismas doesn’t know the difference between all of the denominations of Christianity, but this one is considered pretty far out of  field from the rest of them – like Mormonism, but with a ‘holy’ fire kept burning in a temple since ancient times. Something like that.</p><p><b>hey, no shame in being a big boy. I was underweight for most of my young life, which comes with its own host of problems.</b> [9:32 PM]</p><p><i>I see. Are you getting enough to eat still?</i> [9:33 PM] He knows what he’s talking about; he’s put on a lot of weight since then, but the last place for it to show is in his face under his cheekbones.</p><p>Still, the honest answer would be <i>not really,</i> because he’s a struggling undergrad on the breadline who would rather further water down ramen over being seen at the school food pantry –</p><p><b>well it’s not caviar and crackers, but it’s not so bad. we do like we’re tying knots and make ends meet, yeah?</b> [9:35 PM]</p><p>Three dots again. Dismas wonders if that’s a bit much of an admission to make to a stranger, but there's no vanity gained in lying. </p><p><i>That is a no. That is a very polite ‘no,’ but that is a ‘no’ nonetheless.</i> [9:35 PM]</p><p><i>Would you accept a donation towards keeping yourself fed?</i> [9:35 PM]</p><p>Dismas blinks, and it’s giving him that feeling that poverty can give when it’s acknowledged in a way that is well-intentioned but still painful: angry, but at himself for being such a goddamned charity case, and embarrassed to make it someone else’s problem – a complete stranger, at that.</p><p><b>I can handle myself, I’m not a charity case.</b> [9:36 PM] he writes back, because being angry about it usually stops them from asking twice.</p><p><i>I’m sorry I made it sound that way, it was not my intention.</i> [9:36 PM], then: <i>I am not a wealthy man, but I have what I need, and it is in the Light’s favor that those who can give should do so to those who are less fortunate.</i> [9:36 PM]</p><p>That leaves an even worse taste in his mouth. Dismas sits up.</p><p>It’s been half an hour spent sitting and staring at his crotch, old-timey ‘3D Pipes’ playing out on his laptop screensaver; Dismas gets back to work, immersed in the frustrating work that only a bitter professor can assign.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
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</div><i>You could do better for yourself , but I’m doing better for you , so at least you have that .</i> [1:19 PM]<p>It’s followed by an attachment: Sarmenti with one delicate hand wrapped around the base of a blood red Hermès bag, an open box with the iconic Bolduc ribbon tossed to one side in a fashionably careless way.</p><p>Of course, he wouldn’t know any of that without Sars – he wasn’t <i>that</i> gay.</p><p><b>when gucci mane told you to get the bag, I don’t think he meant it like this mate</b> [1:20 PM]</p><p><i>Grained Monsieur calfskin in rouge , palladium plated . Retails for $ 9,350 . That’ s before shipping, $ 35 in itself</i> [1:21 PM] he writes, barely acknowledging him like always when he’s on a high like this.</p><p><i>I can’ t believe the idiot paid for it like a dickless husband . I haven’ t even fucked him yet . Can you imagine what I can get out of him when I finally do .</i> [1:20 PM], followed by: <i>IF .</i> [1:21 PM]</p><p>Dismas is at the food court, aimlessly stirring the whipped cream at the bottom of a strawberry milkshake. It’s three dollars he can’t afford to spare, but he’s past the point of caring. What was three dollars in a sea of student and housing debt, on top of older debts that were hard to talk about?</p><p><b>you don’t think you’re wearing him out a little too fast?</b> [1:21 PM]</p><p><i>Maybe I am . HAHAH . Just you wait . I’ m going to make him buy me a fucking Birkin .</i> [1:21 PM]</p><p>He grimaces, because he thinks it’s kind of disgusting, if he’s being honest with himself – not the sugar daddy thing, that was his business, but the idea of anyone owning a bag with a supposed worth of tens of thousands of dollars. He couldn’t afford campus health insurance and there were bags worth more than what the average family had in savings. He doesn’t say that, though. Sarmenti had a hairpin trigger, for all that he had to say about how well his life was going.</p><p><b>I’m happy for you, mate. get that bag lol</b> [1:23 PM]</p><p>This one doesn’t get a reply, so Dismas switches over to Wrong Number Reynauld.</p><p><b>is it wrong to feel bad for a sugar daddy, do you think?</b> [1:23 PM] A reply pings in minutes.</p><p><i>What is that?</i> [1:27 PM], then: <i>Are you still mad at me?</i> [1:27 PM]</p><p>Christsake. Dismas thinks it’s cute, though. It’s a breath of fresh air compared to the usual shit, or the creditors.</p><p><b>a ‘sugar daddy’ is a wealthy older man who pays someone significantly younger than they are or gifts them in return for their company. it can be a sexual relationship, or it can be nonsexual intimacy</b> [1:28 PM] Dismas doesn’t know exactly why he’s explaining what a sugar daddy is to some random Christian man – he’ll almost certainly just decry it as prostitution.</p><p><i>That sounds like prostitution with extra steps.</i> [1:30 PM] Bingo.</p><p><b>a friend of mine’s got himself a sugar daddy, some dude that’s 30th in line to become the king or whatever. old money. a diplomat and an ex-soldier on top of that. and he just bought him a handbag worth nearly 10k. don’t know much about him but, mate to mate, that’s a dodgy amount to spend on a gift even for a toff</b> [1:31 PM]</p><p>Dismas assumes half the time spent three-dots up is in looking up ‘dodgy’ and ‘toff.’ At the end of it, Reynauld comes up with:</p><p><i>Your male friend wanted an expensive purse?</i> [1:37 PM]</p><p><i>Now</i> he rolls his eyes. <b>eyes on the prize. who should I feel worried for in this situation, the man who just gave away ten large to an evil little goblin man or the little goblin man who is in a relationship with an absolute nutter who is already over-committed to him and now has his home address?</b> [1:39 PM]</p><p>The Struggle Dots come out in full force, the bubble sometimes barely animating.</p><p><i>There are purses that cost ten thousand dollars?</i> [1:40 PM]</p><p>Jesus Christ nipple-clamped to a clothesline. Dismas tosses out the Styrofoam cup and makes for his classroom.</p>
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</div>Dismas only goes to these things because there’s food put out. If there weren’t appearances to keep up he’d be at the buffet table the whole time, employment be damned.<p>But as it stands he’s in a suit he bought at a secondhand shop his freshman year, now straining around his arms and chest (he’s gained a <i>lot</i> of weight), smiling as he pretends to listen to one of the recruiters from Wilbur &amp; Prince Bank, subsidiary to the multinational pharmaceutical company Warrens Co. </p><p>“Our financial advisory rotational program opens this summer – the deadline to apply was last September, but you’ll have an opportunity next round to apply, see that you do, I think your resume is very strong – I see you’re set to graduate this year, how fortunate, we make an effort to recruit as much from internships as possible – better conversion rates to full-time positions, you see, especially because of the overseas relocation,” the man is saying, doing the kind of talking that never really stops or starts. </p><p>Dismas doesn’t say “your entire subsidiary is predicated on your parent company’s desire to bury thousands of animal rights violations in their trial testing,” and he definitely doesn’t talk about the last girl in his cohort coming out of their summer program with horror stories about being tailed by animal rights activists covering her car in “pig’s blood” red – instead he smiles, puts a placating hand on his shoulder like they’re close.</p><p>“Why don’t I get your name, I’ll touch base on LinkedIn and make sure to apply – next September, was it – amazing to see a pharmaceutical giant present at recruiting events, especially in this climate –“</p><p>Gross. A good third of the buffet is crudités, which is French for cold burnt vegetables lengthwise in large mason jars, apparently. He skips those to get straight to the spanakopitas and chicken enchiladas.</p><p>“Do you see this freakshow?” Missandei is looking sharp, hair done up tight with the Michael Kors black pumps and red lipstick, getting water from the glass dispenser with cucumber slices floating in it like the classy bitch that she is.</p><p>“Can’t believe the pigfuckers had the nerve to show up – as if none of us read the news,” Dismas says back in a low voice, piling on the pico de gallo.</p><p>“Mm. Courtier is hiring, too. Guess the skeletons in their closet are finally dead and buried in the court system. Careful with the salsa, now –“</p><p>“Courtier? They had a scandal last year with all that tainted wine, didn’t they – bloodsuckers, the lot of them – “</p><p>Missy smiles, “Don’t get me started. They saw ‘commercial law’ on my resume and wouldn’t let up – you know their pamphlet has ‘fast-paced and innovative company culture,’ on it, as if that isn’t code for ‘you’re going to work sixty hours a week and there won't be anything left of you once we're done,’ – careful! –“</p><p>That’s how Dismas ends up in his car, head in his hands after wiping down the floor of the ballroom best as he could with cocktail napkins and leaving in disgrace, still covered in salsa and spritzer.</p><p>Great. That was dinner out the window. He’s pissed, half at himself and half at god, and only one of those is close at hand. He turns on his phone to a small chorus of pings and one notification that's way longer than the others.</p><p><i>I have been informed by Junia that sometimes, people say they are asking a question “about a friend” when they are really talking about themselves. I hope it is not you that has a ‘sugar daddy.’</i> [6:09 PM]</p><p><i> If you are in such dire straits, I can connect you with resources from the Church to help you, and the school has resources as well. The food pantry is open Tuesdays and Thursdays, from 9:30 AM – 3:00 PM, located on the basement level of Hamlet Square.</i> [7:10 PM]</p><p><i>Hello?</i> [7:12 PM]</p><p><i>I hope you are safe. If he has come to your address after all to murder you, please let me know.</i> [8:05 PM]</p><p>Please let him <i>know?</i> <b>I’m just fine, mate. better than fine. couldn’t be better.</b> [8:21 PM], then: <b>it’s not me, it really is a friend. haven’t gotten there yet. I’ll let you know when I do, though, really fucking towing the line now.</b> [8:22 PM], doesn’t bother to make it sound less resigned, because it’s honestly not off the table.</p><p>Took time off to make some money just to find out that minimum wage was unlivable, took on every odd job he could find to put food on the table only to throw it back up stumbling in the alleyways outside of the underground shows where nobody would bet on him and only the winner got paid. Not enough money in smokers or sanctioned amateur shows to make them worth it – only the kind of matches where there was no bell, just the bloodlust from the crowd of people closing him in.</p><p>A friend of a friend has work, from a boss who nobody has ever seen, then petty theft escalates to larceny escalates to stepping foot in the territory of someone who’s far better equipped to be doing what he’s doing. No job market free from competition, not even the ones under the table. </p><p>It really wasn’t the end of the world. Indian call center scammers do worse every hour than what he did in four years. It sits heavy on his chest like it is, though. For a second he thinks about telling him that.</p><p>His phone lights up in the darkness of the car park.</p><p><i>Is this you?</i> [8:27 PM]. It’s a picture of his Venmo profile.</p><p><b>yes</b> [8:28 PM]</p><p>The notification pings back in a moment. <i>Reynauld Chatillon paid you $20.00.</i></p><p>Dismas doesn’t go anywhere for a while, just sits with his head and arms resting against the steering wheel, not making a sound.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_</p>
</div>He has a last name now – no Facebook, no LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter, or any other social media from a cursory Google search. <i>Is this weird?</i> Dismas sits back. Of fucking course it is. He figured it out awhile back that he has to be another student at Estate University just from being able to identify the bar in the background of the blurry picture he sent him. Not a fake number, then – hot blonde just thought it’d be hilarious to have him flirting with the religious fundie from study group, or something.<p>That wasn’t going to stop him from flirting with said religious fundie from study group, though.</p><p><b>thanks for dinner last night king</b> [11:02 AM] followed by a kiss emoji, before realizing he should probably have just told him he was going to pay him back.</p><p>The dots come out and perform Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake before he gets a reply.</p><p><i>I am glad you did not go to bed hungry. Do not worry about repayment.</i> [11:05 AM]</p><p><b>financial aid is around the corner, I’ll get you back then, I promise. I’m no grifter, mystery man, in all seriousness.</b> [11:06 AM]</p><p><i>And as I said, my repayment comes not from you.</i> [11:06 AM]</p><p><i>Did something happen last night?</i> [11:06 AM]</p><p><b>tell me about junia. are you two an item? tell me</b> [11:06 AM] It’s not the most masterful changing of subjects, but Reynauld has the good sense not to contest it.</p><p><i>Junia? She is a novitiate at our church. She was in charge of tending the Holy Flame, but as of late has been charged with some… unsavory delinquencies.</i> [11:09 AM]</p><p>Dismas grimaces. That could mean anything – everything ‘unsavory’ had magnitude to the wrong kind of Christian. She could have farted during prayer or run over a homeless man for all that said.</p><p><b>now you’re speaking my language. caught toasting s’mores over the holy fire? tell me, rey.</b> [11:09 AM]</p><p><i>I wouldn’t normally divulge, but you are an outsider to the flock, and it is something you have more experience in. She was caught having written of indecent thoughts on the same sex.</i> [11:11 AM]</p><p><b>oh baby! you’re right on the money about that. has she tried praying the gay away?</b> [11:11 AM]</p><p><i>Very funny.</i> [7:12 AM], then <i>I don’t understand it. Why did you choose to be a homosexual?</i> [11:12 AM]</p><p>“Birdgirl is at the door. Josie wants to get korma, so you’re the man of the house for the time being.” Alhazred points his phone at him. “No shenanigans, I swear to god. Not under this roof, not on this lease. You hear me?”</p><p>“Aye, on my word, sir,” Dismas says, feigning surprise.</p><p>“So on nothing. Alright,” he says, but leaves anyway, Paracelsus stepping aside to let him through from the three-foot wide landing that makes their doorstep.</p><p>“Pardon the intrusion, fair lady,” Dismas says,  firing off one last text.</p><p><b>let’s start with telling me why you think I had a choice in the matter. by the way, bisexual, not that your church sees it as any different.</b> [11:13 AM]</p><p>Paracelsus stares. “That had better not be Margaret on the other end.”</p><p>“No – oy, no! Hey. I learned my lesson,” Dismas spreads his hands, “I’ll let you know if I’m done being rational one of these days, yeah?”</p><p>Margo came from old money and only accentuated her image of meticulous elitism with being a competitive hunter; she did collegiate championships with standard smallbore and air rifles but took her grandfather’s musket on foxhunts, even though it rendered the pelts unusable. The showmanship alone in being able to use a musket was what she was in it for.</p><p>Dismas knew that breaking up with her meant having her sights trained on him, and he did it anyway.</p><p>Paracelsus grabs his cheek. “Pay attention to me.” She takes out a handful of papers from her bag, spreads them out on the living room table.</p><p>“My dissertation was <i>lambasted</i> for being deceitful, overbearing, perverse – so I told them, with total clarity, the truth of what it is that they are accusing me of, wrongthink, not that there is anything unsound about what I’ve presented but that they didn’t want to hear it in the first place – “</p><p>“Hey, oh,” Dismas says, because she really is genuinely upset, “take a deep breath. It’s okay.”</p><p>“It’s not okay,” Paracelsus says. “No, it’s not. I won’t change my proposal. They can’t make me, those <i>idiots</i>, those shit-for-brains,” even as she’s on the verge of tears.</p><p>“You need a shower, bird. And a meal. I won’t hear of it,” Dismas says, holding up a finger, “you need to eat, and luckily for you, Dismas’ Diner is open for lunch. Don’t check Yelp, it’s all lies.”</p><p>Dismas takes a break from stirring the pot of easy mac to check his phone, shower running just a few feet from the kitchen of the two-bedroom.</p><p><i>Of course it’s a choice. All of us are tempted to partake in the sin of homosexuality, but only a few of us turn away from the light of God and the natural order to do so.</i> [11:18 AM]</p><p>Does he have time to unpack all this? Dismas leans back, nose bridge in hand for a moment – wait, <i>’all of us’?</i></p><p>He wants to write something more eloquent, but it’s not in his ‘natural order’ to do so.</p><p><b>oh lad, they didn’t tell you, yeah? you’re gay.</b> [12:31 PM]</p>
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</div>“I don’t like him anymore. He’s vexing,” Reynauld complains, elbows coming to rest on the dining hall table before he withdraws them to his side.<p>Damien grins. “I like him still.” He withdraws the steak knife from his meal to play stabscotch, not wincing when the knife comes down on his fingers. Creep. </p><p>“If he bothers you, then don’t reply,” Junia says, eyes still red-rimmed from her prosecution from over a week ago. It’s just the three of them sharing this table; the others are partaking in the church’s favorite pastime outside of prayer, shunning. Reynauld is only telling her all of this to take her mind off of the church singlehandedly dismantling her of the duties that make up her identity.</p><p>“You’ll reply,” Damien says. “I saw you saving his picture. Disgusting.”</p><p>“Be quiet.” Reynauld sets down his glass. “I want to save him. He’s just like you, you know – he’s also – “ Reynauld leans in, as if anyone can hear him over the din of the dining hall, “of no loyalty to either side.”</p><p>Damien’s only here because he likes a good show, vulture that he is. His own suffering wasn’t enough – he needed everyone else’s, too. He had his back to the rest of the parishioners most of the time, uninterested in godliness – blasphemy was more interesting.</p><p>Still, just his physical presence helps to shield from the eyes of judgmental onlookers, one more body to take the searing heat of disapproval and disgust levied against Junia – Junia, who did no wrong – </p><p><i>But she has,</i> Reynauld tells himself, and he can’t make exceptions for her just because she is his friend. It was certainly deceitful to hide rather than confess it, especially for someone who attended to the holy Flame. It couldn’t be ignored.</p><p>Junia grimaces. “That has nothing to do with me. There are sinners everywhere.”</p><p>“No, of course. I know. I’m sorry.” If he’s being honest, he doesn’t think it’s such a big deal. What was it, creative fiction? No one wronged, no one befouled in the pursuit of lower pleasures. It was really not such a big deal.</p><p>“Sit up straight. No, really,” he says when Junia stares, “dignity is your greatest weapon. Mary Magdalene was the Lord’s closest and most beloved disciple, wasn’t she? Let them say what they want. If nobody ever had a lapse of judgement, the confessional would need to be dusted twice weekly.”</p><p>And because Damien is here, and because he embodies exactly what makes the parish such a hateful beast, he adds, “It’s really not that big of a deal.”</p><p>“Oh, <i>another one</i>,” Damien says, “just fine. Who could have predicted that? If you both weren’t aberrant, perhaps you would be whores with one another.” Reynauld ignores him.</p><p>Later, when he's laying in bed and staring at his phone, he regrets saying that out loud – only more fuel for the fire. He regrets that idiom, too. Maybe he deserves to burn.</p><p>Maybe he should just block him, but he doesn’t have many friends – well, he doesn't have <i>any</i> – outside of church, and he only just now realizes how lonely that is. When he returned from his deployment he was welcomed back into the fold and hired on as a youth pastor, but truthfully he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was poorly acclimated to civilian life and had seen too much to be who he used to be, and he misses that. Maybe that’s why he’s still texting – here was someone <i>real</i>, maybe, who was tangible to him and who could tell him the truth.</p><p>That’s why he texts back, late at night and exhausted, and maybe scared, if he could feel that way anymore.</p><p><i>What should I do?</i> [11:56 PM]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Q: Does this mean Myth of Sisyphus is dead and buried in the yard outside?<br/>A: Not at all - I'm just digressing to write some good old-fashioned college AU crackfic. It's still on like Donkey Kong.</p><p>Found this in one of my folders next to a picture of the Ancestor's ass (I know) and decided to clean it up and release it. They say write what you know, huh? The salsa thing happened at a major recruiting event my junior year, and I just sat in my car listening to Lorde, covered in chicken enchilada. But that is neither here nor there.</p><p>As always, my love to you - let me know what you think. :+)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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